Ladies and Gentlemen, This is Entertainment
by roads-go-ever-on
Summary: They say a magician should never reveal his secrets. But when a baffling murder occurs at a local theatre, Sherlock begs to differ. It doesn't help matters much when he becomes absorbed in uncovering the tricks behind the dead man's final act of the impossible. Because really, even the great Sherlock Holmes can be fooled sometimes. GEN STORY, pre-Reichenbach.


**DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own Sherlock in any way, shape, or form. Thank the BBC.**

**Hello my lovely readers!**

**So upon seeing the new trailer for Season 3 (*muffled screeching in the distance*), I was bit by the Sherlock bug and decided to write a little something. This started as a oneshot, but now it's branched into something quite a bit bigger without me fully intending it to! **

**To all of my ****FtSoS**** readers, I'm not sure what to do about the missing chapter 13. I've tried uploading it multiple times, but it doesn't want to work. I might make an account elsewhere and reupload the story there. I'll keep you updated.**

**In the meantime, please read and review! **

**Happy reading!**

* * *

It was perfectly executed, really.

The organization. The illusions. The distractions. The whole setup was shrilly screaming of brilliance.

No, wait.

It wasn't the setup that was screaming. No, that would be from one of the onlookers.

A silence as thick as the London air in summer had descended over the crowd that had gathered to gawk, the ringing echo of the woman's shriek reverberating within their paralyzed minds. Some eyes were wide in horror, and some others in amazement, some in a degree of grotesque awe. The smattering of fresh, sickening red across the slick black flooring alluded to a mistake, but they knew otherwise. They all did.

The puddle of red had grown, and the silence was interrupted by a steady drip that fell from the box sitting upon an impossibly thin table. The box was severed neatly in two, and if the still expanding pool of gore across the flooring gave a clue, as was its inhabitant.

The illusion was shattered as the box was quickly swiveled to reveal an entirely empty interior, and before a single murmur could rise from the engrossed crowd, the supposed inhabitant of said box waltzed in from the curtains, her skintight leotard swaying with her form and an immaculately manicured hand waving lightly to the crowd as painted lips smirked in a suitably smug fashion.

The silence lasted only a second more before a lone onlooker laughed throatily and began to applaud.

Within moments, the entire crowd had erupted into raucous applause. The man onstage with the impeccable suit beamed, held his dripping saw high, and took an enormously extravagant bow as his companion strut past the box to his side. She winked cheekily at the audience, earning a smattering of laughter for her troubles. Every face beyond the stage the two performers had created was lit with a fervent joy and baffled wonder.

Well.

_Almost _every face.

"There's a dent in the table under the sawbox. The illusion is the width of the table and the height of the girl. No one seems to notice the painfully _obvious_ fact that she loses four inches as soon as she lies down."

There was the smallest beat of silence before a deep snort preceeded his follow up act.

"Not that they hired her for her talent. I do wonder if she's ever seen his wedding ring. Probably not, I'm sure it's much too dark inside that box of theirs. And she was probably preoccupied."

John paused in his applause to find his eyes rolling far enough back in his head to see the velvet curtains dangling several stories above the audience of the theatre. "Sherlock, I didn't bring you along to analyze _every_ _bloody _trick they perform. Or their personal lives, for that matter. Did you _really _have to say that about the box?"

His companion snorted irritably and hunkered down even lower than he had thought possible in the oversized, plush theatre seat. A sigh of resignation rose from behind the lanky man's coat collar as he folded in on himself.

"It's not exactly _my _fault that they're being so exceedingly dull."

John felt his eyebrow crawl it's way up his forehead as he turned to address Sherlock in as dubious a way as possible. "To _you, _certainly. To those of us who are mere mortal morons, it's quite enjoyable to watch."

Sherlock rolled his eyes ceilingward before turning his bored gaze onto John, a genuinely disgruntled expression on his face. "Why? It's so _obvious-"_

John cut him off with a sharp snort that drew several stares. "Because some people want to be fooled, Sherlock. That's why."

The detective turned his gaze lazily back towards the stage. "Why bother with the performance? People are fooled every second of the day."

John opened his mouth to respond, only to find he really did _not_ feel much like causing any more of a scene over an argument he knew he would never win. So, with a sigh of his own, the doctor turned back to watch the rest of the show unfold.

As it turned out, Sherlock would not be making enjoying the act very easy. As each astounding trick passed by and the applause grew thunderous, a snide remark and casual deduction would puff past the upturned collar in a breath of boredom.

"Mirrors. You can see the edge by the curtain. Dismal."

"Sherlock."

"The idiot didn't even _try _to hide his sleeve. You can clearly see the deck."

"Sherlock, stop."

"The flag is a completely pointless distraction. Half of you morons are already looking at the girl."

"_Sherlock!_"

John's hiss of annoyance drew many a withering look from the assortment of show goers around them. He resolutely ignored the haughty sniffs of disdain that seemed to echo around him and chose instead to glare venomously at his companion. "Look," he started with a huff, "if it's so incredibly boring to you, feel free to walk out at anytime!"

The only response he received was a slight incline in his insufferable companion's head.

A sharp call to attention from the magician onstage tore John's glare away from his companion. A small display was in the process of being assembled onstage, and the main magician appeared to be stalling for time by impressing the audience with some flashy slight of hand tricks. The cards bobbed and weaved through his fingers, fanned and folded into impossible forms over his palms, disappeared entirely before appearing under a blushing woman's seat cover. By the time the finale had been set up behind him, the crowd was fairly _buzzing _in expectation.

Minus one, of course.

A dramatic sigh passed from Sherlock's lips as the magician tucked his cards into seemingly thin air. "How many times has he done that now and _none _of you have noticed? The sleeve even bulges where the deck-"

"I'll deck _you _in a minute if you don't _shaddup_, Sherlock!"

John would later deny that he had hissed back at the haughty woman who had turned and hushed him.

Refusing to let the 6-foot five year old sitting beside him distract him from the finale of the show he was now _really_ regretting suggesting for the evening, John crossed his arms tightly across his torso, his much too tight suit jacket pulling uncomfortably across his shoulders and causing his tie to bunch around his collar. His full attention snapped back to the stage for one last glimpse of what he sorely hoped was something impossible.

Impossible enough to fool even Sherlock Holmes would have been nice, but when did that ever happen?

The setup was a surprisingly simple one, and certainly didn't look like it had needed the amount of time it had taken. A simple, wooden table sat in the center of the stage beside a small chair, and an empty fishbowl sat beside a large, two gallon tank that was full to the brim with clear water. There did not appear to be anything within the water, and the small bowl beside the tank was dry as a bone.

To say the crowd was confused was a massive understatement.

With a smile that only a man with a secret could possess, the magician dramatically glided downstage to stand before the audience. He squinted into the seats, his hands held flat over his eyes in an attempt to appear to be comically searching for the audience members. It worked on several of the more shallow people present, but John could hear the grumble from the slumped figure beside him all too well. Taking the magician's cue, the men in the booth at the back of the audience turned up the house lights, fully illuminating each and every spectator. The magician gave a grateful nod before stepping back to survey his willing captives.

"I don't believe it is necessary to say that I do in fact require a volunteer for this last one, no?"

The auditorium echoed with the roar of people shouting, hundreds of hands shot high into the air, waving about like schoolchildren itching for attention. John glanced around, a slightly amused expression ghosting across his face. And these were the people who had been attempting to convince whoever would watch that they were adults.

The magician held up his hands defensively, letting out a high laugh at the racket. Motioning for silence, he scanned the throbbing crowd until his eyes stopped on-

Oh.

Oh, no.

This wasn't going to be good at all.

His finger was pointing directly at Sherlock's dark, sulking form.

"You there, sir! You look like you need some excitement! Why don't you join me onstage?" The disappointment of the crowd was extremely evident, especially when they all turned to see who had been given the honor. Sour _tsks_ and sighs rumbled around them as John stared at Sherlock, amusement beginning to slowly break through his initial horror. Sherlock showed no signs of moving, and the magician's smile began to falter slightly as the moment stretched on. John elbowed his companion sharply, earning him a glare.

"I'm not stepping up there like some pony on show, John."

A small smirk graced the doctor's face as he shrugged lightly. "Could be your one chance at debunking his greatest act. Might even get your money back if you're enough of an ass about it."

Sherlock responded with a withering glance before a spark of _something _entered his eye. John frowned slightly. That was never a good sign. It usually meant someone was either about to end up behind bars or get in a fight. Before he could take back his words however, the consulting detective had unfurled himself gracefully and stood from his seat to a smattering of half hearted applause. John could only watch as he strode purposefully down the rows to step up on stage. The house lights dimmed to black once more as he serenely folded his hands behind his back, an eyebrow raised at the magician expectantly.

Clearing his throat slightly, the magician plastered on his dazzling smile once more, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm. "And we have our volunteer! Now, sir, would you be so kind as to tell us your name?" He looked expectantly at Sherlock, who in turn was staring down at the hand on his arm like it was a particularly nasty rodent. The magician withdrew his hand quickly, and a slight hiccup of laughter pattered through the audience at his wary expression. Before the moment could stretch on too long, Sherlock turned back to observe the darkness that was the audience.

"Sherlock Holmes. Though surely not as you were expecting."

John glanced around as a flurry of mutterings arose from the theatre goers around him, and he didn't miss the glances being tossed at him either. Puckering his face slightly, he purposefully stared at the stage as the magician appeared to be confused.

"As I was expecting, Mr. Holmes? What do you mean by that?"

Stronger men had wilted beneath the cold stare Sherlock gave the man just then. "I mean," he said slowly, "you knew it was me. I saw you checking the receipts before the show. You probably expect some theatrics, surely. Unfortunately I don't seem to have my hat with me, so I don't think I'll be of much use to you."

This brought a much stronger burst of laughter from the audience, and John was surprised to hear that only about half of it was forced. The magician looked startled before recovering quickly with a light laugh. He turned to the audience, an arm gesturing to Sherlock.

"Then, it's no secret! Let's give a hand to mister Sherlock Holmes, folks! This, ladies and gentlemen, is entertainment, is it not?"

Before Sherlock could deliver the scathing retort he held so quickly, the man had moved across to the table and ushered to join him under the cover of applause from the audience. Shutting his mouth ruefully, the taller man made his way to the table and took a seat in the chair the magician indicated. Tilting his head back to look up at the man, he splayed his hands out sarcastically. "Marvelous trick. Care to continue? Though I do suggest removing the cards from your sleeve before you do."

The audience faltered at that, and a brief flash of panic ghosted across the magician's face. He smiled easily, however, and with a quick slight of hand that surely only Sherlock would notice, he tucked the cards neatly into his pocket while rolling up his sleeves. The detective rolled his eyes as the audience let out smug catcalls as no deck appeared to be present under his wrists.

Once the magician had rolled his sleeves well past his elbows, he held his hands out to the audience for them to observe. There was nothing out of the ordinary about his hands, wrists, or forearms, and they were entirely bare. Turning back to Sherlock, he lifted the small fishbowl and handed it to the detective. Raising a brow in bored inquiry, Sherlock took the empty container with a pronounced sigh. When the magician made no second move, he bobbed his head slightly. "I assume this has purpose, then? Going to fill it with water?"

The man said nothing, and for all appearances seemed to not hear his "volunteer" entirely. The lights dimmed to a single spotlight on the two on stage, and a slight tone of music began to swell dramatically. Taking his cue, the magician moved to the tank of water, dipping in his hands and removing them with a shake. Dipping them back in once more, he cupped the water in his palms and turned back to Sherlock, who sat with an expression so affronted John had to smother his laughter. The magician stepped forward, holding his cupped hands over the bowl and lingering slightly. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to break the mood, the magician began to rub his palms together, and a cascade of golden coins tumbled into the bowl on Sherlock's lap. The audience let out a collective gasp as the coins spilled over his palms. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his mouth shutting slowly.

Holding out his palms for the audience to see, the magician stepped back to the tank, empty handed. He cupped another palmful of water, repeating the process of creating coins out of seemingly nothing. Sherlock sat uncharacteristically silent as he stared intently at the bowl, his eyes darting back and forth between the magician's hands, the tank, and the bowl. An internal cheer practically broke past John's lips as the detective actually appeared to be completely fooled.

The bowl filled with coins quickly enough, and the magician removed it from Sherlock's possession to address the audience. They responded with wild applause, whistles and shouts echoing around the theatre. Holding up a hand for silence, the man turned back to the tank with the bowl of coins. Sherlock watched every move, his keen eyes darting to and fro as he observed. Holding up a lone coin, the magician silently dropped it into the tank. It floated to the bottom with a dull clunk, the absolute definition of anticlimatic.

The pause did not last long, as suddenly the magician tilted the entire bowl of coins into the water.

Immediately upon contact, they shifted into shimmering, breathing, entirely _living _goldfish.

Gasps and roars arose from the crowd as the magician stepped forward with a bow, his smile truly genuine now. John was most certainly impressed himself, and he stood alongside the crowd as the lights slowly began to reappear overhead. The noise went on and on as the magician called out his assistant and they took their respective bows. Turning to Sherlock as almost an afterthought, he waved the man forward.

And was promptly ignored.

Sherlock had stood and was staring at the fish that were swimming erratically through the previously empty tank. John watched as he ran a finger along the ledge, his eyes betraying the amount of heavy thinking going on in his brilliant mind. He looked up finally, staring at the magician with an unreadable expression that was returned with one of utter smugness. Shifting his gaze to the audience, the consulting detective caught John's eye.

It was all John could do to not burst into laughter at the sheer confusion hidden so carefully in Sherlock's eyes.

* * *

"It shouldn't be possible!"

"I understand that."

"I was next to him! He had no sleeves! The bowl was empty, the tank was filled with water…"

"Yes, Sherlock, I know. I was there as well, you hopefully realize."

"But-"

Sherlock stopped his frantic pacing before the fireplace to stare at John, who regarded him lightly over a cup of tea from his armchair. The frustration on his face made John snort with laughter, which he quickly disguised as a cough when the frustration became a withering glare.

"But I was _right there, _John! I don't miss anything! What just happened, that should have been-"

"Yes, impossible, I get that, Sherlock! You've only said it twenty times since we've got back!"

Sherlock huffed before returning to his pacing, shedding his suit jacket as he did so and tossing it onto his chair as he pivoted past. It landed in a crumpled heap, and John found himself frowning at it. This was definitely disturbing his flatmate. Sure, he'd expected him to be bothered, but not so positively _frenzied _over a magic trick and a few goldfish! Taking a sip of his tea and making a face, he made to stand to retrieve the milk from the refrigerator. A sudden thought struck him (and it sounded vaguely Mrs. Hudson-like), and he paused in his movement. Scrubbing a hand over his face with a groan as Sherlock paced by once more, the doctor stood from his chair, perching his tea on the edge of the table as he made his way past it. It wasn't until he had retrieved his coat and reached the door that Sherlock's head snapped up, momentary surprise shifting into his eyes. "You're leaving?"

John paused, his hand on the door as he glanced over his shoulder at his flustered flat mate. "Out of milk. Again. I've got a thing tomorrow, won't have any time in the morning to grab it." He glanced at his watch. The show had ended early in the evening, as it was barely seven thirty. "I'll be back in a pop, just… don't go buying any tanks or goldfish or anything, alright?"

The sarcasm was lost on Sherlock. Quite honestly, the entire statement was lost on him. He had checked out of the conversation as soon as he had glanced down at the abandoned cup of tea on the counter and gone back to pacing. With a roll of his eyes, John opened the door-

-and came face to face with a shocked looking Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man had his hand raised as if to knock, and he lowered it sheepishly as the two regarded each other. "Well," he stated with a grin, "what magic did you have to pull for that to happen, then? And don't say it was Sherlock, I know he didn't tell you."

A dry laugh and an incoherent mumble from within the flat drew Lestrade's attention away from John, and he stared at the consulting detective for a moment before turning back to the army doctor. Jerking his head in Sherlock's direction, he lowered his voice to John. "What's with him? I'd have thought he would have known as soon as I entered the building."

John grinned slightly as he tilted his head. "Oh, the usual. Well. Not really this time. There's this thing he can't figure out, see-"

Lestrade blinked slightly. "Thing? As in a case?"

"No, it's more of a… personal thing."

"Personal thing?"

Greg stared at him, awaiting further explanation. John shifted in place slightly under the scrutiny as he silently lamented over the tea that would surely be frigid by the time he finally made it out and back again. "It involves goldfish."

"Goldfish?"

"_Yes_, goldfish. We went to this magician act earlier, and-"

Sherlock's voice suddenly interrupted John's half hearted explanation as the taller man stopped pacing in favor of glaring at the doorway. "Detective, you're here for a reason. Spare us the chatter and spit it out, would you?"

Lestrade glanced between John and Sherlock for a moment before surprisingly responding to John. "A magician act, you say?"

It was John's turn to blink. "Um… yes? Is that important?"

Greg folded his arms, his expression darkening as he looked down at his feet with a quiet curse. When he looked up again, his face was grave. "Wouldn't happen to be the theatre about twenty minutes from here, would it?"

Even Sherlock's attention had shifted fully onto Lestrade at this point, and his eyes darted back and forth, scrutinizing every detail the inspector unknowingly offered. He stepped forward, hands clasping lightly behind his back. "Something's happened."

John glanced at Sherlock and back to Lestrade. "What, at the theatre? Is it important?"

Lestrade shrugged heavily. "Well, depends on your definition of 'important', don't it?"

He paused for a moment before raising an eyebrow to Sherlock.

"Is a murder important?"

* * *

**And so it begins! The goldfish act is courtesy of the fantastic Penn and Teller. Look it up, it's honestly one of the best tricks I've ever seen.**

**Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the start! Please leave a review with your thoughts, and let me know how the characterization is. I've never written for the show before, so hopefully I can pull this off!**


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